


A Vision in Red

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Grief, Hallucinations, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24441628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: There was a day where Richie thought he was going to be ok.When he was soaking up the relief of Pennywise being dead, of being alive, still half-high on adrenaline. When he had seen Eddie hours before, and a small part of him still thought he might turn up at his door, dusty and furious. When the six of them broke their fast with room service and managed to wring triumph from the moment.That day was yesterday.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

There was a day where Richie thought he was going to be ok.

When he was soaking up the relief of Pennywise being dead, of being alive, still half-high on adrenaline. When he had seen Eddie hours before, and a small part of him still thought he might turn up at his door, dusty and furious. When the six of them broke their fast with room service and managed to wring triumph from the moment.

That day was yesterday.

Today, Richie turns his phone on. Sees a hundred notifications, and realises life is just around the corner. No more victories or defeats, no more _we just have to get through this_ , because he has to get through all of it. The fucking day to day to day to day to day.

Which was fine, before, when he didn’t know better. When he told himself to bite down on the anxiety before every show, because it broke up the monotony.

He didn’t have to tell himself to bite down, with Eddie. It was reflexive, to touch him, shove him, tease him, even as he felt the fear of someone knowing drop through him.

He’d pull the grenade pin out with his teeth, couldn’t stop himself.

He was just too much of a coward to hold on to it.

He’s already given up trying not to think about Eddie. It’s not worth it. Richie’s not good at grief, but he’s even fucking worse at _boredom._ And if he imagines just right, his brain rewards him with a pump of dopamine, an _oh, there he is. You got him back, Richie._

So he stares at the mildew on the ceiling, thinks _Eddie would hate that_ , joins the dots of fungus into a Pomeranian. Remembers Eddie describing exactly how he could die, if the spores flew into his mouth while he was snoring in his sleep. Imagines Eddie waving a brush towards it threateningly, T-shirt drifting up, _because_ _he’s fucking gross, ok?_ Can’t remember Eddie without remembering the compulsion to make every inch of his body just a little less clean _._

Daydreams get mildewy too, if you dwell on them too long. Stained and obscured.

He turns on the TV instead.

An middle-aged man advertises a slimming belt with ever-increasing enthusiasm. It’s only a slight improvement from the programming of his childhood. Which was mostly clowns.

He wonders if Eddie ever bought one of those pseudoscientific health products. He wishes he could go back and ask every little thing that never came up in conversation, because he can’t fucking ask anymore.

Anyway. He thinks Eddie probably did. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of epidemiology, but he still kept an inhaler he knew was bullshit. He hopes so, if only for the visual of Eddie with a slimming belt.

“Rich?” comes Bev’s voice behind the door. “Come down for breakfast.”

Bev has learnt that orders tend to work better than requests.

Richie eats his pancakes, half-awake. Everyone keeps bringing up Eddie, and Richie knows they’re trying to help, but it feels like a targeted, fucking _morbid_ performance. Like they want to remind Richie he’s dead. Richie has to stop himself from saying _I know, you think I don’t fucking know?_

Maybe they have to remind themselves. From the way Ben and Bev and Mike and Bill beam at each other, he thinks maybe they forget, sometimes.

Richie doesn’t forget.

Bev’s foot knocks into his under the table, and he feels certain that she was aiming for Ben, as certain as he is that he’s leaving today.

It’s like a fucking mud bath in here, hot humid dirt covering every inch of his body.

_Bacteria_ , Eddie thinks, pawing at the ground above him desperately. _Tetanus._ _Caterpillars, cockroaches, spiders, scorpions, worms, maggots,_ and suddenly he’s facing a blue that looks like it echoes across the sky forever, taking deep breaths of the cool, fresh air, hitting him like a first sip of water in the morning.

The ground is littered with wooden palings. Eddie manages to grasp at one, shuddering as termites crawl from the stump. He spies a healthier looking one and takes hold, using it to pull himself up, out of the ground.

He stands, shaking himself off as much as possible. Dirt clings to his skin like creepy-crawlies.

He had been dying. He knows he had been dying, because he knows the statistics on stabbings, knows that timely medical care is of the essence and he’d already run out the clock.

There was something reassuring about being too far gone to do anything. It shut off the part of his brain that said _don’t remove the weapon - too late. Can you sterilise the wound can you cauterise the wound can you bandage the wound, it’s your fault if you die, Eddie,_ and let him focus on the feeling of Richie’s hand on his chest and warm murmurs into his hair.

“Richie? Guys?”

Nothing.

He looks around at the detritus, and realises he’s standing on Neibolt.

The Losers almost certainly think he’s dead. Maybe he _is_ dead.

_The inn_ , he tells himself, taking deep breaths, counting so each is longer than the one before. _The inn will have answers._

The inn is empty. Or almost empty. Richie’s room has a sandwich with a bite taken out of it, just sitting on the counter, starting to smell. _Fucking rank._ Eddie tips it into the bin, mostly a pointless gesture since it doesn’t seem like anyone’s here to clean. He doesn’t want to revisit his bathroom, so he showers in Richie’s, resenting the fact that he has to change back into his dirt-covered clothes. Then he heads to his room, hoping to find a clean change of clothes, or his luggage, or _something_ , but no such luck.

It’s probably with Myra. Which, logically, is where he should be heading.

Instead, he finds himself remembering an address Richie had told him, _in case you ever need a place in LA._

He thinks the whole _being dead_ thing may make booking a flight difficult. And he’s not fucking hitchhiking, not in Derry. He’s just going to have to make his way, on trains and buses and taxis.

Then he remembers, the money belt Richie had laughed at him for sliding up underneath his shirt.

_Well who’s laughing now, motherfucker?_


	2. Chapter 2

Richie keeps checking Eddie’s Facebook. No one’s taken it down yet. Probably because it’s one of those Culturally Significant Icons. Full of approximately 0 photos of Eddie, 0 pieces of information about his life, and 15 café reviews.

_NO NON-DAIRY CREAMER? IN THE YEAR 2019? And yet the coffee’s still $8, folks. I’d have to be dying from thirst or sleep deprivation._

_I like froth as much as the next person. But I don’t want it to take up 80% of my cup! Don’t give me a babycino when I’m looking for an adultcino._

His favourite just says _Sugary nonsense._

He laughs as soon as he sees it. Laughs until he tears up. Then cries again, until his phone lights up with a text from Bev.

_It’s 7 o’clock. Eat something._

She might be psychic.

Richie orders a pizza, and reloads Eddie’s Facebook page.

The doorbell rings. He goes to collect his pizza, and it’s Eddie standing there.

Just for a second. Then it’s just a short, brunette delivery man.

It’s not unusual. The daydreams had been starting to get a little more…visceral.

He knows it should probably worry him more than it does, but they’re not like the deadlights, indistinguishable from reality and threaded with violence. Most of the Eddies he dreams up just remind him to buy soap, and nag him to eat more than a pizza slice a day.

But they’re vivid. So, the next day, when the realest Eddie yet winds up on his doorstep, Richie just thinks of it as the next logical step. It’s not bleeding, but it has a tear through its shirt, and its clothes are covered in dust.

“Thank God,” it says. “Richie?”

There’s a few seconds of silence. Richie frowns. Normally the not-Eddie would be yelling at him, or jumping his bones at this point. He’s definitely never had an awkward silence with a vision before. He’s sure that would go down well in sanatorium stand-up though.

“Shower’s down the hall. There are pizza rolls in the oven,” Richie says, to break the silence, then goes to sit on the couch.

“What the _fuck_?” Eddie says, and Richie bites down on his lip. It’s a yeller, today, apparently.

He walks over to stand in front of Richie, arms akimbo, and says, “You could look a _little_ happier to see me, given that I fucking tunnelled out of a sludge heap to get here.”

Richie winces, not meeting Eddie’s eyes. “I know.” Richie says. “I know you don’t like dust, or dirt, or insects, or greywater, or the dark. I’m sorry.”

Eddie blinks, confused.

“Richie. Did the deadlights give you a concussion? Are you feeling ok?”

Richie blinks and lets out a short bark of laughter. It’s not laced with bitterness, but surprise. Like he genuinely thinks the question is hilarious.

That does not raise Eddie’s hopes.

“I am, actually,” Richie says. “You’re my favourite hallucination yet.”

Eddie gapes. Feels the blunt force trauma of the words, and forces out, “ _Richie_. I’m not.”

“Fine,” Richie says. “You’re my favourite of the ones with clothes on. Rude to call me out like that, though.”

_Nope. Eddie absolutely does not have the mental capacity to process that right now. His brain is already packed like a buckling suitcase._

“No,” Eddie says. “I’m not disputing that I’m your favourite, dipshit, I’m just fucking real.”

Richie goes pale, just for a second, before he swallows and gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “No.”

Concern and anger have always been difficult for Eddie to separate.

Difficult, or impossible.

“Fucking prove it, asshole,” Eddie says.

Richie blinks and says, “You got an explanation for how you’re walking around right now, after being- After everything?”

“I don’t know!” Eddie yells. “Why the fuck would I know? What, you think I woke up with a pamphlet? _Understanding Your Resurrection_?”

“And-” Richie says, picking up steam, “-And look at you. Eddie Kaspbrak, standing in my living room, clothes covered in dust and splinters, not once asking for a shower?”

Eddie considers screaming _There were bigger things on my mind you absolute dick_ , takes a breath instead, and says, “Fine, I’ll take a shower. Would that help?”

Richie makes a face and says, “Not really. I’ll know I’m just rationalising.”

Eddie decides to save his swearing for the shower.

“Sorry. The water’s cold for about a minute,” Richie’s voice echoes through the wall.

Eddie swears some more.

But eventually the steam calms him down, enough so that he can think.

He has options. He doesn’t know the other Losers’ numbers offhand, but they’re probably in Richie’s phone. They’re probably asleep by now, but he could ring in the morning, ask them to come.

Bev was always good at convincing him of things.

He doesn’t want to go out there and find them. Richie needs someone taking care of him right now.

Eddie comes out in a towel, surveys his old clothes with disgust, and goes rifling in Richie’s closet. Gets dressed in a too-big tee and sweatpants.

Distracted for the last hour, he suddenly remembers how hungry he is. He goes to the kitchen, gets the pizza rolls out of the oven and shoves three into his mouth, burning his tongue in the process.

Richie’s watching him from the living room, furrow in his brow.

_The **real** Eddie would never eat pizza rolls_, he hears in Richie’s voice. He groans, and shoves a handful of grapes from a colander on the counter into his mouth as well. He instantly feels regret. They do not taste freshly-bought.

Richie just keeps curiously observing him from a distance, like he’s David Attenborough watching a penguin.

Eddie, irritated, throws a grape at him.

Richie only flinches after it hits, like he wasn’t expecting it.

“You felt it!” Eddie exclaims. “Admit you felt that.”

Richie blinks a few times, then says, “Tactile…tactile hallucinations are a thing, I think.”

He picks the grape up, looking at it.

Eddie, who knows Richie will eat _real_ food that’s fallen on the ground, has no doubt that he’s about to try the seemingly-hallucinatory, definitely-dirty grape.

He marches over to snatch it from him, noticing Richie pale as their fingers brush.

“ _Dude_ ,” Eddie says. “Don’t eat floor grapes.”

Richie, who has never in his life been obedient, nods jerkily. “Ok. Um. I should go to sleep, I think.”

“Let me guess,” Eddie says dryly. “Hallucination gets the couch?”

Richie huffs a laugh through his nose. _Which Eddie can work with._

“You’re _reacting,_ Rich. If I’m just a product of your imagination, that means you’re-”

“Laughing at my own jokes?” Richie asks. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound like me. Night, Eds.”

Eddie lies on the couch as Richie makes his way to his room. He doesn’t expect to fall asleep, but it turns out dying really takes it out of you.

He doesn’t sleep soundly though. When he wakes, he can see the night sky through the window, but the lights are on.

He turns to see Richie standing in the living room, _watching_ him again, pale and fidgety, arms bracketing his chest.

“Rich? You ok?” _Are you less ok than how obviously fucked you already were?_

“We had a visitor. A noise complaint.” Richie says distantly. “Uh. Apparently you’re not supposed to have screaming matches at 1 am.”

_Damn. It would’ve helped if one of his neighbours had seen Eddie._

Mostly he’s just worried that Richie looks sicker than ever. He frowns, getting up and heading towards Richie to check on him. “Well, don’t look at me. You started it.”

He stands in front of Richie, inconspicuously checking his pupils.

“A noise complaint, Eddie. Like, other people can hear-”

Eddie, distracted, presses a hand to Richie’s forehead to check his temperature.

Richie’s eyes abruptly roll back into his head.

It’s not an elegant catch, but at least Eddie manages to grab him before his head hits the floor. And drag him onto the couch without banging his elbow against the coffee table more than once.

By the time he grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, and kneels in front of the couch, Richie’s eyes are fluttering open again.

He turns onto his side so he’s facing Eddie. He looks terrible, a sheen of sweat settling on his skin, but he has this small, persistent smile on his face.

“Hi,” he says, in an almost-whisper.

“Hi.” Eddie holds out the glass. “Drink some water.”

Richie acquiesces for a few sips, then hands it back.

“I missed you.”

“No kidding,” Eddie says dryly, and Richie’s smile grows.

Eddie puts the glass on the table behind him so he can push back the strands of hair sticking to Richie’s forehead.

He can hear a sharp little breath in, but Richie doesn’t flinch away, so he keeps going, threading his fingers through his fringe long past the point it becomes redundant.

“I missed you too,” he says, and there are about 80 other things he wants to bring up, but he thinks Richie’s had enough drama for a night.

All of a sudden, Richie’s sitting up. “Wait. Are you ok? Do you-do you need a hospital?”

He’ll probably go for a check-up tomorrow, but he doesn’t need to panic Richie right now.

He lifts his shirt to show the absent scar. Richie reaches out a hand, then stops mid-way.

His eyes widen, and Eddie can just tell he’s remembering everything that’s been said.

Eddie decides to get the jump on this, if he’s going to be fucking weird about it anyway.

“You did say your favourites were naked.”

Richie lets out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. “Sorry,” he says eventually. “Guess that was pretty much the worst way for you to uh-to find out.”

Richie says it like he’s making some big confession, but Eddie’s still confused as to what, exactly, he’s confessing.

“Ok,” Eddie says, “but is this like. You’re attracted to me because you’ve never seen what a human that eats vegetables looks like before, or do you-I mean. Is it more than that?”

Richie looks at him incredulously, which, Eddie thinks, given their situation, is entirely misplaced.

“No,” he says dryly. “I have wet dreams about all of my hot, deceased friends. I make a point of it.” 

“Oh yeah,” says Eddie, face growing warm at the implication. “ _I’m_ the idiot, for not knowing what your fucking…wet hallucinations mean.”

Eddie had really hoped to kiss Richie tonight. But this seems like a very weird segue.

“Hey,” he says. “Can you just-say it properly. Like, _romantically_ , not in your weird grief jerk-off way.”

Richie opens his mouth, and his throat clicks.

“Fine,” Eddie says. He takes a breath in and out and in. “I think I was in love with you when I was 13. I know I’m in love with you now, and I think I would’ve been in love with you all the years between, if I’d remembered.”

Richie stares at him.

Eddie’s starting to wonder if maybe that was a little _too_ much, until Richie darts forward, hand canvassing his cheek, and kisses him.

It’s a very awkward kiss. The angle’s all wrong, and Richie’s glasses poke his temple, but when he pulls back, his pupils are dark and pooling.

“Tomorrow,” Eddie says, moving to sit flush against Richie on the couch, “we tell the others. Buy some vegetables. Clean the house. And book you a therapist.”

“Or,” Richie suggests. “We spend the day in bed. And tell the Losers they can visit in a week or so.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but leans in for another kiss. He has plenty of time to convince Richie. They have all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richie: This year, I lost my dear future husband, Eddie.  
> Eddie: Quit telling everyone I’m dead.  
> Richie: Sometimes I can still hear his voice.


End file.
